


Pick Your Poison

by MisterTiberius



Series: Maybe This Isn't The End At All [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Harold Finch, Blood and Injury, Finch Poisoned, Fluff and Angst, Harold Finch Whump, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, Joss Carter mentioned, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Harold Finch, POV Lionel Fusco, Poisoning, Protective John Reese, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-31 16:43:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterTiberius/pseuds/MisterTiberius
Summary: His head was rapidly growing fuzzy and he stumbled more times then he'd ever admit, but he made it to the table without embarrassing himself. His hands held a tremor as he grabbed and unzipped his computer bag, digging into the pockets to locate and remove his phone and earpiece. One hand pushed the com into his ear, the other shakily unlocking the electronic. His thumb tapped the number at the top of his contacts list, heart thundering in his ears. The call was picked up after four rings that seemed determined to feel like eternity."Yes Finch?"
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Series: Maybe This Isn't The End At All [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546288
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

Harold groggily blinked up at the plain white ceiling, giving himself a generous moment to recall where he was. The latest number, Trevor Palmer, was on the run from a particularly hostile gang, and decided it was best to hunker down in a high-end hotel. So John and Harold diligently played babysitter and purchased the room next to the would-be victim, setting up the surveillance equipment needed to keep a keen eye on Mr. Palmer.

Mr. Palmer had stumbled upon an incriminating file about the group after a bit of digging. Apparently, the gang had made a dirty deal with some corrupt cops about some new drug called 'Bliss.' Being the reporter he was, Mr. Palmer had planned to bring the whole ordeal out into the light, which the boss and his lackeys weren't too pleased about. But thanks to Mr. Reese and his undetected assistance from the shadows, Mr. Palmer was able to make it to the Chandler Hotel in one piece.

Harold sat up, throwing a hand onto the nightstand to blindly grope for his glasses. He was unsure as to why he'd been roused from his slumber until he heard it, someone was outside the door. He tensed, debating about whether or not to investigate or contact John. The decision was made for him when the wooden obstruction clicked open, revealing the dark silhouette of a broad-shouldered man illuminated by the light flooding in from the hallway. Despite the unknown visitor having a key-card, something about all this didn't sit well with him. A distinct feeling of wrongness twisted his stomach into knots, the warning bells in his mind deafening as the shadow began to advance.

Certain of that fact that this was no friend, Harold threw his covers back. Eyes widening when his mystery assailant roughly grabbed his shoulder to force him back, pinning Harold to the bed. He grunted in discomfort as the man's added weight put pressure on his fused spine, but being uncomfortable was better then being dead. And judging by the needle the attacker had pulled from his jacket, Harold wasn't going to be breathing for long. He eyed the shimmering blue liquid inside the syringe with apprehension, he was willing to bet his entire fortune that this was the new drug the file had spoken of.

One of his hands gripped the wrist that held him down, the other thrown out onto the nightstand. Harold squirmed defiantly, hissing when the assailant jabbed the needle into his arm. His knuckles grazed cool metal and his fingers swiftly wrapped around the brass lamp, smashing the base against the man's temple with a sickening crack. His attacker crumpled to the carpet, unmoving. Harold dropped the lamp as if it'd burned him, staring at the fresh splatter of blood on the light with a grimace. Seeing as he couldn't turn his head, Harold cautiously grazed his fingers over his arm in search for the syringe.

He hissed when his thumb bumped against it, carefully removing the needle from his flesh. He squinted, using the dim light from the hall to determine how much had been forced into his body. Unfortunately, a quarter of the drug was gone. Thankfully, the amount given to him wasn't enough for a overdose. He shivered as a tingling sensation flared up from the point of injection, the unnerving prickling slowly crawling outward. Harold clambered off the bed, stepping over the unconscious man. At least, he hoped the man was just unconscious. 

His head was rapidly growing fuzzy and he stumbled more times then he'd ever admit, but he made it to the table without embarrassing himself. His hands held a tremor as he grabbed and unzipped his computer bag, digging into the pockets to locate and remove his phone and earpiece. One hand pushed the com into his ear, the other shakily unlocking the electronic. His thumb tapped the number at the top of his contacts list, heart thundering in his ears. The call was picked up after four rings that seemed determined to feel like eternity.

_"Yes Finch?"_

Harold exhaled heavily in relief, letting John's calm drawl anchor him. His head swimming as another violent shiver wracked his stiff frame, his hands practically vibrating. He had to deposit the phone onto the table in fear of outright dropping it, the symptoms the drugs induced were strange indeed. Harold's mind was foggy, but remained mostly lucid, which was unexpected. He found that being both high _and_ aware was an unsettling combination, the sensation resembled a surreal state where one wasn't sure whether they were awake or dreaming. Harold could hear heavy blows being mercilessly dished out, evidence of what sounded like quite the scuffle from John's side of the line.

"Mr. Reese, we have a problem. The gang somehow found out about our involvement." John's end of the call had quieted, and Harold could hear faint groans from who he assumed to be the underlings who'd foolishly picked a fight with the man in the suit. Harold dug his laptop out of the bag and swiftly pulled up the hotel's surveillance feed, pinpointing exactly where John was. He was two floors down surrounded by six writhing men, the tension leaving Harold's shoulders now had he had eyes on the ex-operative. John confiscated a gun from an unconscious goon and tucked it into the back of his waistband, stepping over two other men before making his way toward the elevators.

_"Our number told the boss that he gave us the file."_

Harold was a bit surprised by the news, Mr. Palmer hadn't come off as one who put others in danger to save his own skin. One could never be too careful though, and Harold had long since learned his lesson about judging a book by it's cover. If Mr. Palmer thought he could weasel his way out of imminent death by carelessly pinning the blame on the ones trying to save him, he had another thing coming. Harold froze when his ears picked up shuffling that originated from behind him, followed by a low curse. The genius turned to warily eye the disoriented minion, he didn't wish to hit the man over the head again and risk permanent brain damage. But the odds were that Harold wouldn't come out of a second assault unscathed, so he might be forced to act while he still had the advantage.

"That would explain quite a bit, I'm afraid I've had an encounter of my own." The resulting silence had the hair on the back of Harold's neck standing on end, it was a charged quiet that promised explosive violence. He unconsciously held his breath, sparing the groggy lackey a pitying glance. John had gone ridged in front of the elevator doors, Harold raising a quizzical brow at the abrupt change in posture. John's gaze flicked up and locked onto the camera, eyes cold and bottomless with a type of deadly calm that only someone with the willpower and self-restraint of a government operative was able to successfully achieve.

_"I'm on my way."_

His voice was sharp with an undertone of something far more biting, but Harold wasn't put off by the less-then-friendly tone. He was confident that John wasn't directing any ill intention toward him, he wasn't like that. Harold found himself increasingly thankful that he's been able to keep his breathing even, he wanted to avoid tipping John off that something was amiss with the reclusive genius. He didn't want him to worry, it was all the man seemed to do after the loss of Joss Carter.

"I'll keep a lookout for Mr. Palmer and contact Miss. Shaw-" Harold cut himself off with a gasp of pain when a hand grabbed the back of his neck and harshly yanked him away from the computer screen, his eyes jumped over to the still-recovering goon on the floor and it became abundantly clear that reinforcements had arrived. Harold cursed himself for not closing the hotel door, but his mind had been preoccupied with the fact he had a new strain of drug in his system.

_"Finch? What happened? Talk to me."_

Harold yelped when his knee was kicked out from under him, his back greeting the floor with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. He wheezed, groaning weakly when a foot planted itself on his chest. His head spun, faintly registering muffled talking. He made a noise of protest when large hands patted him down, ripping his jacket open in order to get to the syringe that he'd stashed in his vest pocket. The needle was stuck into his arm for a second time, his vision blurring when the remainder of the drug was pushed into his system.

_"We're almost there Harold."_

The voice was steady and firm, like a promise. The man hovering above him pressed his boot down, causing liquid fire to bloom in his chest. His back smarting at the abuse it was receiving, Harold was going to be sore for_ days_ if he survived this. The goon seated on the floor by the bed spoke to the one maliciously damaging his nerves, who replied curtly in German. Even with his brain scrambled, Harold recognized a kill order when he heard one. He jolted when the sneering man above him was plowed into by a blur of snarling brown fur, the second German who was bracing himself on bed lurched to his feet only to drop like a pile of bricks with a cry as a bullet sunk into his kneecap.

"Harold!" There was the unmistakable sound of rushed footsteps before two fingers gently pressed against his throat, measuring his erratic pulse. The needle was cautiously pulled from his arm, hopefully pocketed so Harold could later analyze its contents. He released a shuddering breath, relieved that he'd regained the ability to breathe. The hand moved from his neck to his shoulder, squeezing with carefully controlled strength.

"Can you move?" John murmurs, worry practically dripping from his words. Harold's muscles refused to cooperate, it felt like his organs were suffering from an internal earthquake. There was another gunshot followed by loud swearing in German, John barking out a dutch command before Bear was nosing Harold's temple with a whine. John was talking to someone, a female by the sounds of it. Harold peeled his heavy eyelids open, relieved to see Shaw alive and kicking. John had a gun trained on the door as she hastily stuffed his computer and phone back into his bag. Her grip on the leather handles were white-knuckle tight, enraged eyes drilling into the nearest blubbering German lackey like she could snuff his existence out with her glare alone.

Harold flailed an arm out to weakly grip John's shoulder when he's effortlessly lifted up, pressed against John's side with an arm securing his twitching frame in place. As much as Harold disliked being held in such a childlike manner, it left one of John's hands open. The last thing he wanted was for John to be caught in a shoot-out without a gun. So Harold swallowed his complaints, not that he was sure he could even get through a sentence without embarrassing himself. He would have to rely on John and Shaw, and he had upmost confidence that they could handle themselves.

They moved as a unit, John following Shaw's lead. She poked her head out the door, Bear right on her heels as she started down the hallway. Harold twitched at random intervals, unwillingly slipping in and out of consciousness. He was surrounded by chaos each time he resurfaced into awareness, bullets whizzing by too close for comfort. More often then not, the deafening gunshots were followed by piercing screams that was sure to haunt his dreams for years to come. Harold feared that one of these times, when he's inevitably swallowed up by the darkness, that he wouldn't be waking up again. The void tugged at him, the inky abyss beckoning him deeper.

He succumbed with the hope that this was not the end for him.

*** * *** ****

A sense of déjà vu washed over Harold as he groggily blinked up at yet _another_ plain white ceiling. Aiming a disoriented frown at the dim light overhead, his squinted eyes throbbing from the soft glow. Harold had been deposited onto a particularly soft bed, probably in one of his safehouses. He shifted, hissing when something in his hand pulled uncomfortably. He squinted down at the appendage in question, lips thinning at the sight of an IV.

Harold swallowed dryly, the steady and piercing pulse of pain behind his eyes proving that sinking back into the calm waters of unconsciousness was going to be impossible. His limbs ached, protesting against any form of movement. His very bones felt heavier then lead, weighing him down with misery. The steady beep of the nearby machine that measured his heartbeat wasn't helping his raging migraine in the least. So, more then a little irritated and still foggy with sleep, he unwisely plucked the heart monitor off his finger.

The shrill whine of the flat-line had Harold gritting his teeth. He precariously leaned off the side of the bed to snag the cord and give a harsh yank, ripping the plug from the outlet. The abrasive sound immediately cut off, Harold's headache having spiked from a six to a solid nine. He situated himself back to the middle of the bed, settling against the expensive pillows. Harold massaged his temples, jumping when the door to the room he was currently in slammed open.

The knob cracked against the wall, the simple fact that the aggressive action probably left a dent had Harold grimacing. John barked out a dutch command from the hallway and Bear was leaping onto the bed, crouched over to the muddled genius' legs protectively. He saw the muzzle of John's gun before he laid eyes the man himself, stepping over the threshold to sweep the room with a sharp blue gaze. Shaw and Root were right behind the ex-operative, guns drawn and ready to drop bodies.

Harold had crane his neck in order to see over Bear, spotting Fusco's grim but determined face when the detective poked his head in the doorway. He remained in the hallway, but he also had his firearm in hand. Root planted herself at his bedside while Shaw and Reese cleared the closet, bathroom, and any other potential hiding places. When it became apparent that there was no threat to Harold's person, John reluctantly lowered his rifle.

"That was hardly necessary." Harold piped in, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end when four keen stares fastened themselves onto his disgruntled figure. It seemed that they hadn't even realized he was awake, too focused on the possible danger. Root's observing eyes flicked to the neglected heart monitor, then to the unplugged machine. She sighed heavily, whether it was from relief or exasperation remained to be seen.

"Harry, I thought you knew better." She scolded, voice light. Despite the borderline chipper tone, her posture stayed stiff and guarded. Harold frowned at the nickname, startling when Shaw flopped down onto the end of the mattress next to Bear. John swiftly made his way to the other side of the bed to stand parallel to Root, his razor-sharp gaze quickly connecting the dots. John's brows creased and he grabbed the heartbeat monitor, pushing it further away from the bed.

"The noise was atrocious." Harold defended, side-eyeing John as he turned to replace the machine with a plush chair that'd been tucked into a dark corner, effortlessly dragging it as close to Harold's bedside as he was able. He then situated himself on the cushion, making it evident that he wouldn't be leaving Harold unattended. His rifle was strategically placed against the wall, well within grabbing distance should it be needed.

Harold didn't bother protesting the ex-operative's company, knowing he'd just get an earful if he attempted to argue against a babysitter. He had to swallow the yawn that pushed up his throat, exhaustion settling in his bones now that the frenzy of activity had passed. He blinked groggily, shifting a bit only to wince at the sharp burning sensation that shot up his spine. He peeked an eye open, a mixture of uncomfortable and humored when he found everyone's eyes drilling into him, he was still getting used to the intense concern that his friends exuded when it came to his pain.

"It appears I require more time to recuperate." Harold mumbled, head lolling to the side. He heard Fusco snort, then the unmistakable sound of footsteps as Root and Shaw took bear and vacated the room. In doing this, it left Harold alone with John's foreboding presence. His form was taut, his icy gaze firmly fixed onto the wall across from where he sat. Harold debated breaking the quiet that had settled over them, timidly clearing his throat. John's snapped to attention, lurching out of his chair to hastily pour Harold a glass of water from the pitcher that'd been conveniently placed on a nearby table.

"I trust that Mr. Palmer is safe?" Reese's expression flattened even further, leaning more toward blank. His cutting eyes clearly projected that he was neither impressed nor surprised by the question, Harold matching his stare with a look that demanded answers. John held firm for a few tense moments before sighing heavily, handing Harold the cup. The genius tentatively took a sip, closing his eyes in bliss when the cool liquid slid down his parched throat.

"In police custody." At Harold's alarmed expression, Reese elaborated. "He's under witness protection, he's going to testify against the gang." The reassuring explanation settled his nerves, allowing him to relax as best he could against the plush pillows that'd been thoughtfully propped up to cushion his tender back. He finished the water in several gulps, sighing in content when the last of the refreshing liquid settled in his empty stomach.

"I see...his future is out of our hands now." A dark look flashed across John's face, gone almost as soon as it'd appeared. Harold tilted his head, it became abundantly clear that the ex-operative had been thoroughly ruffled by the events that'd unfolded in the hotel. He pondered whether or not he should address the coiled atmosphere that clung to John's ramrod straight posture. His lips parted, hands fidgeting restlessly. But before Harold could even get a single syllable out, John cut in.

"Root had the Machine analyze the drug those thugs gave you, you'll be fine. There's no lasting effects despite how big of a dose you took, but you'll be shaky and unsteady on your feet the next few days." John's eyes met his for a heartbeat before he looked away, seemingly uncomfortable with holding the genius' gaze. Judging by the avoidance of direct eye-contact, it was safe to assume that John wasn't fessing up to the whole story. Harold merely raised a skeptical brow, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"That's most relieving to hear. Although, I'm getting the sense that you're withholding information." John's lips thinned, eyes darting side-to-side. He appeared to be at war with himself, a losing battle if his defeated exhale was anything to go by. Harold waited patiently, not wanting to press too much and risk John closing himself off. It took a solid three minutes of suffocating silence before John finally spoke.

"The drug works fast and hits hard, your heart stopped. We had to steal an ambulance to revive you, we moved you to this location when you stabilized." John's face screwed up, his gaze hollowing out with a type of distance only seen in people who suffered PTSD and were reliving a trauma. Harold was reaching out without any conscious decision to do so, fingers flinching back from John's arm last minute, uncertain whether the action would be welcome. He frowned at his own cowardice in the face of his friend's distress, resolutely laying his hand on John's warm skin before he could second guess himself.

"Mr. Reese, my heart is still beating." Harold gently curled his fingers around John's wrist to tug the ex-operative's hand up, the limb yielded to his guidance without so much as a _twitch_ of resistance. The genius proceeded to gently press John's palm onto his chest, the steady rhythm of the pumping organ behind Harold's rib-cage seemed to pull his partner from his less-then-pleasant memories. John sucked in a shuddering breath, his head dipping down to study the silk sheets Harold was comfortably wrapped up in.

They stayed like that for awhile, just reveling in the anchoring presence of the other.


	2. Extra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.K.A the heartbeat monitor fiasco from Fusco's POV

After the initial scare that was a world without Finch, they hunkered down in a secure safehouse. Settling down in a well-furnished living-room, not that Fusco expected any less from Glasses. The man seemed to have a bottomless bank account, it made Fusco wonder how the man had come by such monumental funds. Secrets aside, Glasses was expected to make a full recovery within a few days. Which was the best news he's heard all week, but then there was the matter of his mental state.

There was no telling how Glasses would cope with the experience, the drug had flooded the genius' system without mercy. Not to mention the man had flat-lined in the 'borrowed' ambulance, Fusco had been on the phone with Wonder Boy when it'd happened. The resulting chaos over the line had his heart stuttering in his chest, not that he'd ever admit it. The tension that'd formed from Finch's recent brush with death held onto their stiff bodies, Nutter Butter occasionally fiddled with a small device that was connected to Glasses' heartbeat monitor. It beeped a steady rhythm, a testament that their mutual friend was alive.

Due to the genius' vulnerable state, everyone was on high alert. Coco Puffs was restless, periodically getting up from the couch to pace for a few minutes before settling down onto the nearest piece of furniture, then the process would repeat. Maybelline's focus jumped between the windows and front door, keen eyes searching for any signs of an impending ambush. And lastly, there was the Urban Legend. He was in the seat closest to the wooden rectangle that separated them from the room Glasses rested in, posture stiff with malice rolling off him in waves.

Fusco's eyes were drawn to their, frankly, daunting collection of illegal artillery. The weaponry was either in their hands, or close enough that a gun could be snatched up and fired at the drop of a hat. The detective prayed to whatever higher power existed that no criminal organizations would suddenly decide today was a good day to try and snuff out team machine. He knew with a morbid certainty that his three homicidal friends would shoot first and ask questions later, because if push came to shove, Fusco'd be pulling the trigger right along with them. And...well, he used the term 'question' lightly, because they'd only have those who'd survived the initial hailstorm of bullets to interrogate.

Anyone who wasn't on the friendly list wouldn't get so much as a _glimpse_ of Finch.

Fusco stiffly gulped down his second helping of top-shelf brandy, mentally going over and revising what he'd put in his report. Sometimes he hated cleaning up team machine's messes, but it was definitely better that these trigger-happy idiots had someone to cover for them. With Carter gone, he was their full-time inside man. He didn't mind helping out...most days. He wanted a chance at redemption, and assisting these guys in saving people was a better fate then he deserved. He'd dedicated himself to Finch and his less-then-legal cause. Just by working for the man Fusco learned that, despite the mystery that shrouded Glasses' past in shadows, he was someone the world couldn't afford to lose.

Fusco's head snapped up when a high-pitched whine droned from the device Coco Puffs held, dread dropping in his stomach like a stone at her alarmed expression. Everyone was moving at once, Reese lunching over the couch to seize a rifle that looked to be packing some serious firepower before storming out of the living-room with an animalistic ferocity that promised a bloodbath. The wary detective followed after Maybelline, whose dark expression looked more murderous then usual. Fusco seriously hoped no one was stupid enough to try and execute Glasses, it was basically a suicide mission by this point. There was no way that anyone who killed Finch would get away without catching a bullet themself.

By the time he poked his head into the doorway, Nutter Butter was planted at Glasses side while Maybelline and Mr. Sunshine cleared the room in search of hidden assailants. He caught Glasses exasperated stare when the man shifted to peer over Bear. The detective was surprised to see the genius conscious, considering how much Bliss had been dispensed into his system. Fusco holstered his gun when Wonder Boy hesitantly shouldered his rifle, his grip on the weapon white-knuckle tight. Whether it was from carefully contained outrage or overwhelming worry, Fusco wasn't sure.

"That was hardly necessary." Glasses commented, Fusco raising an unimpressed brow at the ruffled genius. Wonder Boy went statue still, eyes fastened on Glasses like he thought the man would vanish if he blinked. Maybelline and Nutella appeared just as startled as Mr. Congeniality, they'd probably been too focused on massacring any uninvited guests to notice he was awake. Coco Puff's observing eyes flicked to the neglected heart monitor, then to the unplugged machine. Her heavy sigh was a mixture of exasperated and relieved, tucking both her guns into the waistband of her jeans.

"Harry, I thought you knew better." She scolded, voice light. The borderline chipper tone didn't fool Fusco, because her posture remained stiff and guarded. The genius frowned at the nickname, jolting when Maybelline unceremoniously flopped down onto the end of the mattress next to Bear. Tall, dark, and deranged swiftly made his way to the other side of the bed, standing directly across from Nutter Butter. Fusco wasn't surprised when Wonder Boy swiftly put the puzzle pieces together, pushing the heartbeat monitor machine away from the bed now that it was no longer needed.

"The noise was atrocious." Glasses defended, sounding not unlike a disgruntled bird. The genius watched Wonder Boy turn, the man dragging a plush chair to Harold's bedside. He then proceeded to step around the piece of furniture and situate himself onto the cushion, making it evident that he wouldn't be leaving Glasses unguarded. Fusco wasn't surprised when Glasses stayed quiet about the ex-operative's plan to lurk, Mr. Sunshine wasn't one to take no for an answer. The detective noted that Wonder Boy's rifle was strategically placed against the wall next to the chair, well within grabbing distance should it be needed. 

Glasses squirmed a bit, a tennis ball lodging itself in Fusco's throat when the man cringed with a pained hiss. The genius squeezed his intelligent eyes shut as his jaw worked, exhaling loudly when the bout of agony finally passed. Glasses peeked an eye open when the tense silence dragged on, looking put-out by the almost identical expressions Fusco was sure the four of them were wearing. "It appears I require more time to recuperate." He confessed in a low tone, as if ashamed of having to admit such a thing. Glasses eyelids fluttered as he stubbornly struggled to keep his eyes open, a displeased frown on his lips. Fusco snorted, the last thing they expected the man to do was jump right back into work.

The detective ignored the genius' sharp glare, following Coco Puff and Maybelline's example. Right on their heels when they coaxed bear off the bed and left Glasses in Wonder Boy's capable hands.


End file.
